


Frances Eleanor

by historynerd1783



Series: A Home for Frances [1]
Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow, American Revolution RPF, Lams - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - American Revolution, American Revolution, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 10:10:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20388016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historynerd1783/pseuds/historynerd1783
Summary: John Laurens did not die at Combahee. Instead, he obeyed orders, got better and was there when the last of the British left New York before journeying back to South Carolina for some respite. His wife Martha is still deceased, but he brings his daughter, Frances to America, so she can have the Father she always deserved.This first chapter is merely their first meeting.





	Frances Eleanor

**Author's Note:**

> This is me indulging my desire to make right some of the historical wrongs as perceived by me. I have made this as historically accurate as possible, so please forgive any discrepancies as things I was unable to find evidence of.

John Laurens threw his thin bedlinen off and swung his legs around, planting his bare feet on the hardwood floor of his bedchamber. He scratched the puckered scar on his right shoulder that still caused him discomfort from time to time and rose to his feet, walking to the window to peer out of the gauzy sheers. John’s room was situated on the anterior of the third floor of the house at the corner, with tall windows that faced West, providing a few extra hours of light in the evening that John used for either correspondence, his studies, or painting. His father's black carriage was parked out front and was currently being cleaned and polished by James, one of the more than three hundred black persons owned by his father, Henry Laurens.

He wiped the sweat from the previous evening’s humidity from his neck and under his arms and shaved with a quick, practiced hand. At his sister’s suggestion, he decided to forego the powder he often dusted his hair with in favor of a black ribbon tied at the nape of his neck. Martha had thought it important that his hair be his natural honey blonde today and not alter his appearance in any way. He dressed in a silk suit of ecru, with delicate rose pink and sage green embroidery adorning the trim of his breeches, as well as the long lines of his waistcoat and coat. Stockings and a pair of suede shoes, the color of sand completed the look. The shoes, a gift from France from one of his dearest friends, Lafayette, were new. He tucked a thinly wrapped parcel in the bottom of his leather rucksack and made his way down the stairs.

“Jack is that you?” his father called from the dining room. John’s boot touched the landing at the bottom of the stairs, his hand gliding down the railing until it reached the end where he deposited his bag in the foyer before he joined his father for breakfast. “It is,” he returned once he’d passed under the door frame to their dining room. Henry Laurens smiled, a saucer of coffee halfway to his lips before his eyes ticked to the plate at his right where John always sat, a hard-boiled egg in a porcelain cup waiting for him. “I require coffee,” he declared and took his seat at the right of his father. Sarah, another of Henry’s slaves materialized to fill a cup for John and he smiled and thanked her even as she did. “Thank you, Sarah, how are you this morning?” John asked. “I’m well, Sir,” she replied, and curtsied, then passed him the cream she knew he would reach for. Were they alone, he would remind Sarah that he preferred she call him John, not Sir, but with the patriarch of the family at the table, he knew better than to draw his ire towards either of them.

John stirred his coffee and took two sips before he cracked the top of his egg with one swift motion. “Your sisters have already eaten and are now about the garden, cutting fresh flowers for the house. They insist on an abundance of flowers of every color they can manage to find for the arrival of their niece.” John offered a tight smile in response and spooned a portion of egg into his mouth preventing a verbal reply. When John remained silent now biting into the corner of a slice of buttered bread, Henry continued, “After so long apart from my family, it pleases me to see both of my daughters so cheerful. They’ve been flitting about since the sun came up guessing at what she might look like, who she might look like and what she should like to eat or do.”

Frances Eleanor Laurens was Johns only child, born a mere month after he left London and his wife Martha, then heavily pregnant with Frances, to join the Continental Army in America to offer his service and life to the pursuit of liberty from King George and his increasingly tyrannical acts. John had quickly become part of General George Washington’s military family as a volunteer aide de camp in August of ‘77 when Frances was 7 months old. Martha had passed away after a brief illness on a visit to France in 1781 and Frances had been in the care of family members until she could be safely transported to America after the war. Now was that time. She had set sail some weeks before and the ship carrying her and a family friend of his wife’s family, the Manning’s was spotted at dusk the previous evening sailing into Charleston Harbor.

The clock above the mantelpiece chimed 8, and a moment later, Shrewsberry appeared in the doorway. “The carriage is ready, Mr. Laurens.” Henry smiled at John as he rose, draining the last of his cup of coffee on his ascent and set the cup down with a clank on the saucer. He tugged on the bottom of his thin waistcoat and nodded a brief farewell to his father before heading out the front door and down the steps to the carriage where his light bag had been loaded for the evening stay at a boarding house. The ride to Charleston Harbor would take the majority of the day and they would find lodgings for the night before making the long journey back to Henry’s plantation the next morning.

John had brought along a book that Hamilton had recommended, An Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope, by Joseph Warton in his most recent letter from Philadelphia. He smiled to himself and touched the breast of his jacket where the letter was now safely tucked away so it could easily be referenced in the reply he intended to write on the road.

Alexander Hamilton was the closest friend John had, a man he’d met when he joined George Washington’s military family as a volunteer aide de camp in August of 77’. In Hamilton, John found a man who shared his passions. Passion for liberty not only of America but of all enslaved persons as well. They had also shared a passion for each other that neither time, distance, nor familial duties had been able to affect. Their affections for one another were quite simply put, unalterable.

James stopped mid-afternoon, parking the carriage and twin black horses under the shade of low hanging broad-leaf trees to dine on the lunch Sarah had packed for them of fresh bread, cooked chicken, a portion of cheese for each man, and apples, John insisting they eat quickly. The closer they were to Frances, the more eager he was that her long journey come to an end. Near two months on a ship with friends of family must have been overwhelming for her and it was not lost on John that she was still mourning the loss of her mother to whom she had been so close. Privately, he had been making arrangements to have Martha’s remains brought to South Carolina where she could be buried in the family plot where they would all be one day, but he had told no one, save for Alexander, in the event that they didn’t complete the journey.

Charleston Harbor was dusty, loud, and crowded when they arrived as the sun began its descent on the horizon. When John had finalized the arrangements with the Manning’s in his last correspondence, instructions were given that if Frances and the family she was traveling with were to arrive during the day, they would find lodgings nearby and leave word with the ship. By this hour, they would have their things unloaded and have taken rooms and were likely dining together.

James stopped and parked the carriage, and John hopped out before he could come round to open the carriage door for him. “I’ll jus’ go see about Miss Laurens, Mista Laurens,” said James. John thanked the man that had worked tirelessly for Henry for more than a decade and watched him jog to a man with a ship’s manifest where he would inquire as to whether they had disembarked the ship or remained.

James returned with news that Miss Laurens, as well as her chaperones, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Bloom had left word that they were staying at an Inn and would leave word with the keep as to their comings and goings. While James took the carriage to see to the horses, John walked through the streets to the row of Inns, Taverns, boarding houses and shops that lined the streets until he came to Drayton Hall where he booked a room for the two of them for one night and asked that a cot be brought into the room as well as requesting three breakfast and lunch meals be packed for them to take in the morning. Having made the last of his preparations, he set off to find the building described by the ship steward to James in hopes of finding his party.

He had only passed by four or five shop windows when he stopped short and held his breath for a long moment. For standing at the very next shop, a dressmaker, was a handsome couple with a young girl, the woman's hands on her shoulders protectively. The man took notice of John then and, following his gaze to the young girl, arched his eyebrows and took a step towards John. 

“Might I presume you to be Mr. Laurens?” he asked in a deep, but amiable voice. While both the woman and the young girl now turned to notice John, he nodded as he closed the short distance between the two parties and extended his right hand. “You presume correct, Mr. Bloom.” The two men shook hands for a long moment as they exchanged pleasantries. Mrs. Bloom, now facing John as well, having guided the two of them while the men were introducing themselves. 

John’s eyes now settled on the young girl that he had immediately known was Frances. There was no mistaking her parentage with John’s nose and chin, Martha’s fair hair and she had both of their blue eyes, though the color matched Martha’s more he thought. She had her head tilted downward shyly until John spoke, “Hello,” at which point she looked up and smiled a closed-lipped smile in response. “Hello,” she replied in a clear and confident tone that made John’s expression brightened. He took a knee in front of her, unconcerned with soiling his breeches and held out the palm of his hand for hers. “You are most certainly Frances Eleanor. My name” he began, only to change his mind, “...well I’m your Father, Frances.” He watched her eyes scan his face with curiosity before placing her hand in his timidly. “Hello, Father,” she said, knees bending into a curtsy that John knew she had been taught by not only his deceased wife Martha but his sister Martha as well when she was living in London. When she stood upright again, she added, “Bonjour Papa”, and John beamed. “Bien, Frances,” he praised. “Bonjour mon fille,” he replied and lifted her hand to his lips. 

How many times had John worried about what he might feel when they met? He worried he would become too emotional, or that he might feel nothing at all. He hadn’t expected to feel such an immediate and overwhelming affection. A feeling that he knew her and that she was his. Hamilton had written to him, effusing his affections for his own young son, Phillip, and John had chastised him for seemingly being so single-minded. He could hardly do so again, now that he had met his own daughter and in one moment, had felt his world veer in her direction. She was so young and vulnerable and the weight of the losses she had experienced, as well as the absence of her own father for these first years of her life, made his heart break. He had been so willing to lose his life for his country, eager some even accused, and now he felt the same pull towards this person that he knew little about, and yet he knew Frances. As though she had always been his, even before she was born. She was always to be. And now, she was here, and John would give up his life for hers as readily as he would have for his country, for South Carolina, and for his friends. 

John rose to his feet, letting her small hand slide out of his and shook the hand of Alice Bloom, who had accompanied Frances on the months-long journey. “I must thank you both for taking on the responsibility and care of seeing Frances safely here to me. I insist on paying your expenses while you’re here. Alice fixed the collar of Frances’s dress while Joseph shook his head. “No need, Mr. Laurens,” he began, only to be interrupted by John, “John, please.” Joseph nodded once and continued, “John, we appreciate the kind offer, however, there is no need. It was our pleasure.” “No trouble in your crossing, I presume?” John inquired, and Joseph again shook his head, “A few storms, nothing of concern.”

Johns eyes fell on Frances again as she fidgeted impatiently and ran the toe of her black shoe along the groove between the cobblestones. “Good news,” he said cheerfully turning his attention back to the Bloom’s. “Have you all eaten dinner?” Frances perked up, craning her neck back to look up at John causing him to suspect they had not. “We were just discussing that,” Alice answered, turning slightly to smile warmly at Frances. “Frances hasn’t eaten much today.” In a lower register she added, “Nerves I expect.” John nodded and bent at the waist to meet Frances eye. “Would you like to have dinner now Frances? Are you hungry?”

She nodded emphatically scratching the end of her nose with her index finger, and John noticed she had long, slender fingers as he did. “Yes, please,” she replied politely. He nodded once and turned to the Bloom’s once more. “Can I persuade you both to join us?”

The two looked at each other before Joseph answered, waving John off with his hand. “Thank you for the kind offer but I expect you would enjoy dining with your daughter alone. I’ll have her trunk and portmanteau brought to your man at your carriage.” John flinched at the intimation that James was his man, but made no objection, merely pointing out where the black carriage with gold trim was now parked in the shade. “Thank you.”

Alice turned to face Frances, her gloved hands cupping her cheeks and kissed her forehead. “It has been our pleasure, Miss Frances Eleanor Laurens, to accompany you on this journey these long weeks. I found you to be a cheerful companion always.” Her husband retrieved a handkerchief from his waistcoat and handed it to her over her shoulder, seemingly expecting the tears that now flowed down her cheeks. It seemed as though it only now struck Frances that they were parting ways and she would be moving on with John as her own bottom lip quivered and her chin shook, revealing a small dimple. She straightened her posture and took a deep breath, and hugged her caretaker of the last months as John watched with trepidation.

When they parted, Alice stood straight and wiped Frances’s tears with the corner of the handkerchief before wiping her own. “If I don’t see you again before you leave for your new home, we will continue to pray for you as we have each night since we met you. Now don’t forget your promise to me, Miss Frances. When you finish your sketch of me, you must send it to me so I may hang it in my parlor.” Frances nodded, “Yes, Ma’am.” Alice turned to John to explain, “You have a very talented young daughter, Mr. Laurens. She sketched and painted to pass the time away but was unable to complete a sketch she started of me, as she ran out of charcoal. Her grandfather sent along a new box of charcoals, but it would seem your daughter required a larger one,” she mused. 

John arched an eyebrow with interest. “Well, we shall have to procure what you need in order to finish and keep your promise, Frances.” After another round of goodbye’s, the Blooms turned to continue on their walk, Alice stopping to look over her shoulder several times before Joseph touched her elbow and she walked straight on with him.

Alone with the six-year-old daughter, he had never met before this day, John straightened himself and tugged at his waistcoat, a habit he picked up from his father, and held out his hand. “Let’s see about getting some dinner, shall we? I’m famished.” She hesitated a moment before taking his hand. Perhaps she felt the weight of the moment as he did. That from this moment, it was the two of them. He sought to encourage her with a smile and she finally took his hand, and he took her into the inn where they could dine in the dining hall at a small table with two wooden chairs where they were brought lemonade, ham, boiled potatoes, and long green beans.

John noted that her table etiquette was quite good as he asked her questions about the ship, the weather they had encountered and how she spent her time. When she required assistance to cut a particularly thick piece of ham into smaller bites, he got up from the table to squat beside her, his hands covering hers and simply adding some elbow grease to her own effort until she had several more manageable bites on her plate. She reminded him of his younger siblings and the assistance he had provided them at the dining table and felt a new fondness for the young girl who would depend on him for so much.

After dinner, they found James eating the food that had been packed for him with a few other carriage drivers who were also indentured. Slavery was a practice abhorrent to John. He had fought tirelessly during the war to secure their freedom through service in the war but had failed more than once. With the war now over, he was ready to pick up a new weapon and wage a new war, this time on the institution of slavery itself with his quill and perhaps, a position in politics. He did what he could, treating the men, women, and children his father owned with respect and kindness, but he had learned at an early age that it did them no favors to do things for himself. They belonged to his father by laws that John intended to help change along with men like Hamilton, and he had seen the cold manner in which his father had treated those John had shown kindness too. Henry wasn’t a cruel man, but he viewed it as their purpose to serve the Laurens family in any thing they required. John would have servants when his own home was built. Men and women who received a respectable wage for the services they would provide John and now, Frances.

James met the pair at the carriage where John introduced James merely as a man who had served the Laurens family well for many years and, the man who would drive their carriage home. James removed his hat and bowed before he greeted her politely, “Good evening, Miss.” She returned his bow with a curtsy and James smiled a closed-lipped smile before opening the rear of the carriage to hand John her leather bag that would contain her bedclothes and likely a hairbrush and change of clothes for the next day. He also handed John his own satchel made of fine leather that contained his own bedclothes, a shaving kit and fresh shirt for the next day. On the bottom of his bag, unknown to Frances, was a gift wrapped in thin brown paper tied with a white lace ribbon provided by Martha.

John exchanged a few instructions with James, indicating that he wished to depart early in the morning and shook off James’ offer to carry their things and see them to their room. “I can manage James, thank you.”

“How did you sleep on the ship, Frances?” John asked as they crossed the dirt street to the inn where they’d eaten. “I was frightened some of the time,” she replied, peering up at him sheepishly. “But then I was brave,” she finished. “Oh? What made you brave?” he pressed. She pulled her blonde braid round and tickled her chin with the end, telling him, “Grandfather told me before I left for America that my father is brave and if you can be brave then so can I because I’m your daughter.”

John halted on the cobblestone sidewalk and swallowed hard before pivoting to face her, squatting so she could meet his eye. “Your bravery makes me very proud, Frances,” he told her with sincerity. “I worried that you might be scared on the ship, there are storms from time to time and unfamiliar sounds, but I trusted that you are mature enough to do what needed to be done and I had faith that you would arrive here in Charleston safely.” He took her braid and tickled her chin himself with the tied-off end and she giggled, and John looked down the street, distractedly watching a dog barking at some invisible perceived danger. When his eyes returned to Frances she was studying his face intently in a way he recognized. Her eyes followed not his nose or the color of his eyes or hair, but the lines of his face. The contours of his cheek and brow, the shadows under his eyes and the angle of his jaw. John immediately recognized she had an artists eye and made a mental note to find an art instructor when she was settled. 

Frances blinked with heavy lids as the excitement of the day caught up with her. Twenty-four hours ago she had arrived in this harbor under cover of night and had spent her day in a new country surrounded by an array of new people, new sights and experiences entirely unique to her. For the first time, John wrapped a strong arm around her legs and lifted her up, settling her on his right hip and bending to the left to pick up her bag. She wrapped her arms around his neck for the support he thought until she rested her cheek on his shoulder as he ascended the stairs to their room.

After seeing to her more immediate bedtime needs, he helped her dress in a cotton nightdress and turned down her bed. She sat down on the edge to climb in but rather than tuck her in, he went to his bag and pulled out the small flat gift he’d brought with him, then plucked her up and sat her on his knee on his bed, holding the gift out to her. “I brought this for you, I hope you like it.” Her blue eyes twinkled and she smiled at him before excitedly untying the lace ribbon and unwrapping a copy of ‘An Easy Introduction to the Knowledge of Nature, and Reading the Holy Scriptures’, by Sarah Trimmer, a London author of children’s books. She mouthed out the first two words and was attempting to sound out the third when John cut in to help. Together they read the title and she opened the pages, her lips moving as she read the words she recognized. “Do you like it?” he asked, wondering if a book with illustrations may have been more interesting to the young girl when she twisted on the bed to face him, neck craned back and smiling. “Yes, thank you, Father. Only, I don’t know all the words just yet,” she informed him. John smiled in return and tucked a loose length of wavy hair behind her ear. “Well, that’s easily remedied. I’ll help you, and you also have your Grandfather, your Aunts, and your Uncle Harry.” His stomach turned, recalling that there was only one Uncle for Frances now, John’s youngest brother James having passed away some years before. 

“Come now, time for bed, tomorrow will be a long day,” he told her and lifted her easily to cradle her in his arms, laying her down in her bed for the night. “Tomorrow night you’ll be in a bed your own with your own things. There’s much to tell you and to be excited for, but for now, sleep.” She pulled the thin blanket up and rolled onto her side and yawned. John smoothed back more loose hair wondering how he would make it neat again in the morning and bent low to kiss her temple. 

He put her book along with the wrappings on top of her things inside her bag and watched her quickly fall asleep from the chair at the small desk in the room. When her breathing had slowed and John was sure she was asleep, he pulled the letter he’d received from his Alexander the day previous from his waistcoat pocket and began writing his reply…

My Dr Alexander,

I received last evening your letter of the 11th inst. with joy. I now go too long without the comfort of your ink strokes, after so long a time spent with them in every space in which I moved. In keeping with my promise never again to exclude you from the details of my life apart from you, I tell you that I write you now from a room I’ve taken in Charleston Harbor, where my young daughter of six sleeps on a cot…


End file.
